


Fadewalking

by TrulyCertain



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Dream Bonds, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s an accident. She’ll tell him that later, and she’ll stand by it – she didn’t intend to do it.</p><p>The “Oops, I accidentally walked into your dreams and saw all your vulnerabilities and your screwed-up younger self, which is awkward because I barely know you, and I keep wandering through your memories, and now we’re bonding in the Fade but I can barely look at you in real life” AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chanterie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanterie/gifts).



It’s an accident. She’ll tell him that later, and she’ll stand by it – she didn’t intend to do it.

* * *

 Ellana opens her eyes. She hears a scream from somewhere several feet away. It echoes off stone that’s all around her - in the walls, the ceilings. Trapping her. Her hands tremble at the sight. There’s no light here, no air, nothing familiar. She grew up in forests, and this reminds her of Chantries, of temples – it’s a shemlen place. She shouldn’t be here. She climbs to her feet, hearing another scream, and something that sounds like… laughter?

She’s in a corridor in an unfamiliar building. The ceilings are high, and there’s…

There’s blood everywhere. Smeared across the walls, pooling on the floor. The place reeks of it, and of blood magic; the stuff must be powerful, because it’s oppressive, nearly seeming to choke her. There are bodies scattered around the room (so many, Creators, what happened here?), and after a moment, she recognises templar armour and mage robes on them. Is she in a Circle? 

Her chest is tight with panic, and she tells herself to keep breathing. In, out. In, out. She can’t think, she can’t  _think_ …

Colour draws her eye. Purple. She turns her head, unwilling to look and brave some new horror but needing to know, to distract herself from the tightness of her chest and her inability to breathe. She sees nothing more than a barrier. It hums, the magic obviously powerful, and behind it is another body.

No. Not another body. She hears it, now she’s paying attention: the lowest murmur, barely a whisper. She can’t even tell what the words are, but it has the tone of a recitation, of repetition.

She moves closer, approaching slowly, tentatively. Alive. At least someone’s alive in this place. As she reaches the other side of the barrier, she sees templar armour, matted blond curls. His head is bowed as if he’s in prayer, but there’s something desperate about it. He’s shaking. Now she’s close enough, the low murmur is just about decipherable as the Chant of Light.

“Hello?” she tries.

He looks up, his surprise quickly turning to such rage that she finds herself backing away, fear crawling up her spine. “What is this?” he cries. “What new trick are you…?” It’s interrupted by what sounds like a sob.

He’s painfully young, barely into adulthood. She sees brown eyes, wide and half-wild but somehow resigned. Underneath them are dark circles that speak of little or no sleep for a long time. His cheeks are painfully gaunt. His skin is pale, and there’s blood on his face, the red stark against the whiteness. His voice is hoarse, desperate, as if he’s been screaming, and… and familiar.

She tilts her head, looking again at him, and  _seeing_. “Cullen?”

Why would he be in her dream? She likes the commander well enough, though she sometimes finds him rather intimidating, but she can’t even say they’re friends. They speak little outside of war room meetings. And why would she imagine him like this?

Even so, he’s something familiar in such a nightmare, and she finds herself wanting to cling to that.

His eyes widen, panic settling in them, and she wonders if she’s made a mistake. “What - ? I –  _Inquisitor?_ ” His eyes are wide with surprise, but something else is blooming in them, too. Something akin to guilt, or shame.

It takes her aback; even here, he’s attempting to retain formality, rank and order. She looks around at the scattered bodies, the blood-covered walls, the chaos around them, and thinks she can understand why. She turns back to him, unsure how to address this… this boy in front of her. “Where are we?”

He swallows, hesitating. His voice is rough when he speaks; it sounds as if the words hurt him. “The Circle, after the, the demons – “ A sharp inhale, his eyes widening. “This isn’t real.”

Frowning, she asks, “What?”

She realizes that his words have truth in them. She doesn’t remember how she got here, and this place feels… hazy, more an impression of horror than something concrete. She can’t think why she would dream of such a place, and it has the feel of familiarity, of memory. Not her dream, then. So it must be…

The anger of before is relighting in his eyes. “How did you find this place?”

“I didn’t, I – “

“You shouldn’t be here. What did you do?”

“Cullen, I swear…”

“ _Leave.”_

“I  _can’t.”_

They are left staring at each other, both breathing heavily and on the verge of panic. The stone around them echoes, and she wonders if she’s in danger. It may just be a memory, but he mentioned demons; she can feel blood magic.

His brow creases in confusion. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

She wants to explain, or apologize, to do  _something…_ “I mean that I – “

The world becomes a flash of white, and she wakes.

* * *

 She gasps, opening her eyes. Instinct moves her.  She reaches out with her mana and listens, needing to be certain. No, she’s no longer in the Beyond. Foolish as it is, she reaches a trembling hand out to touch the wall next to her bed. She runs her fingers down the stone, but while it feels reassuringly real, it also makes her remember the grey, cavernous dream-Circle. The sound of blood dripping off the walls.

The terrified young templar is haunting her. His eyes were half-mad, and so _familiar._ And he was covered in blood. She has to wonder if it was his or others’. She remembers the barrier, the state of him, and wonders how long he’d been trapped in there. And then she remembers the bodies, and wonders if he’d had to watch his friends die, people he knew…

No. Surely it was just a nightmare. It makes no sense. That can’t have been him, not really. A representation of him? A spirit? Why would she dream of such things? What is her mind telling her?

A memory returns to her. She remembers asking Cullen about the Blight, about what happened in the Circle, and she remembers the hunted look in his eyes, his polite but firm refusal to talk about it, his obvious discomfort. Perhaps her mind was feeding off that, trying to imagine it.

But  _why?_

She sighs. They set out for the Wastes in three days, but for now she’s in Skyhold. She has the nearest thing to a rest possible. Maybe if she finds out what happened, displaces the facts with reality…

Yes. She’s awake now, her toes itching, her legs and feet restless. She huffs out a breath, attempts to tie up nigh-untameable hair and clothes herself, setting off for the library.

Skyhold is sleeping. The sky is still dark, and birds haven’t yet begun to sing. She sees barely any lights – there are torches along the wall still burning at guard posts, and she can’t help but notice that the commander’swindow is glowing with candlelight. His sleep may well be restless too.

She passes soldiers, nodding to them. They make nervous eye contact, obviously uncomfortable around the Herald, the Inquisitor, and she tries not to sigh.

For once, Dorian is not in the library. Though he is her friend, she finds that she’s relieved. It would be difficult trying to explain her late-night research session.

She finds the history shelves quickly enough, and then she looks for works of the Circle, of the Fifth Blight.

She is still reading when the bell rings: not the alarm, but the lower bell, less strident in its tone. The war council is to be called.

She restrains a sigh, and then the reality of the situation hits her. She wonders if she will be able to look Cullen in the eye after her odd dream. She hopes so; there might be questions if she doesn’t.

She looks back to her book – one of Genitivi’s histories. There’s little said about the Circle’s fate, but what she does see is disturbing. Blood mages, demons rising, people trapped in the tower for days… It all seems terrifyingly familiar. It all seems so much like her dream.

She shakes her head as if trying to shake off that thought, rising from her seat and returning the book to its shelf.

The bell means she has maybe fifteen minutes before she must be in the war room. As she makes her way to it, the minutes passing, the dread of seeing Cullen rises in her chest, makes her limbs heavy and her hands weak. But she shall be professional, she tells herself. She must. Still, she can’t help but be afraid – of disturbing him with her awkwardness, or worse, looking up and seeing the frightened boy of the Circle rather than her colleague.

Luckily, that isn’t a problem. Less luckily, it is not she who seems to take uncanny interest in the floor or the walls, gaze skittering so eyes won’t have to be met, but Cullen. He spends the meeting barely looking at her, businesslike to the point of brusqueness. He usually has a greeting, or politely half-listens to Josephine and Leliana’s pleasantries and small talk, but today he seems distracted, a frown never far from his face. Josephine and Leliana glance at him, evidently puzzled, and then at her. Ellana shrugs when he isn’t looking, tries her best to behave as though nothing is amiss.

It’s only after the meeting ends, as she’s about to exit the room, that she feels a gloved hand on her arm. “May we speak a moment?”

She turns and looks up, seeing Cullen. His shoulders are tense, and he’s looking somewhere near her left ear rather than meeting her eyes. His face is pinched, uncertainty written on it, in his tone, but there’s something else. A trace of… anger? She remembers the wild-eyed fury of the Circle templar, the betrayed, demanding questions, and wants to run.

_No._ She is Dalish. She learned long ago not to be afraid of humans, and she knows this man. It was just a dream, and he must want to speak to her about some other matter, maybe some small offence…

She gently takes back her arm. “Certainly.”

With a curt nod, he carefully shuts the door. Then he crosses his arms and asks, “Have you always been able to walk in other people’s dreams? Is it a Dalish practice?” His voice is far too calm, studiedly so, and his hands are clenched.

_Fenhedis._ She opens her mouth, closes it again, struggling for words. “I can’t… That was your dream? I thought it might be, but I – I can’t. There are barriers in the Beyond, they limit dream-places, and I didn’t try to do anything. I just woke up there, I promise.” When he simply stands there, his face still grim, she tries, “In Mythal’s name, or – or by your Maker, Cullen,  _I didn’t mean to.”_

Maybe it’s something in her face, or her eyes, but his expression softens, his mouth relaxing, and he leans back slightly, his weight shifting. “I see. It must have been…” He looks away from her. “…unpleasant.”

“That’s one word for it.” She wants to add a nervous laugh, but he seems tense enough. She has already hurt him by wandering into his mind, and she doesn’t want him to misconstrue such laughter. It isn’t at his expense. Instead, even though her blood and her bones are telling her not to, she asks, “Was that… was that a dream, or a memory?”

His gaze skitters away from her again, and he raises a hand to his mouth, looking at the floor when he says, “Both. It was a nightmare, but one based on a memory.”

“ _Mythal._ Cullen, I’m sorry.”

The smallest, harshest laugh. “It’s not as if it was your fault.” His voice is hopelessly bitter.

“No, not the platitude. I’m sorry for seeing it. It wasn’t mine to know. But it is a burden. You don’t have to carry these things alone.”

It’s too much; he isn’t ready for the suggestion. She knows that once she sees him tense again. “I thank you for your honesty. But I would rather not speak of such things.”

“Cullen…”

That small, sharp nod again. “Inquisitor.”

He opens the door, and he’s gone before she can say anything more.

* * *

 The Inquisitor set out for the Hissing Wastes a day ago. She herself is far away, but her words are still with him, never far from his mind.

_You don’t have to carry these things alone._

Cassandra has said similar things to him. Even Leliana has, in the quiet darkness of her rookery. Even so, it’s strange to hear them from Lavellan, who must have far more important things on her mind. The Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste -apparently the saviour of them all. He must be forgiven for having his doubts.

He knows he frightened her. It was brief, but he saw it in her eyes. They were wide and green, fixed on him, and he saw fear in them. It startled him. She has always seemed harder than the rest of them, quiet and strong, and to see her afraid was… odd. Shame rose in him, and he stepped back, attempting to give her more room.

He shouldn’t have, but to know that someone had crawled through his mind, had seen his nightmares and his memories and the boy he has tried his hardest to leave behind… He finds that his breathing is uneven. He runs a hand over his face, attempting to calm himself. It won’t do him any good to keep turning this over. It’s an old wound, and it won’t be healed by picking at it.

He looks at the candle on his desk. It’s nearly burned to a stub, and he knows that it’s far too late to be working. He doubts anything pleasant awaits him if he sleeps, but at this point, he has little choice; he’s nearly fallen asleep twice at his desk tonight, and it wouldn’t do for him to drop off in the middle of a training session with the troops. It’s difficult to maintain command if you’re ridiculed.

He exhales, putting away his writing equipment, blowing out the candle and ascending his ladder. His joints ache. At first he assumed it was the cold here finding its way into his bones, but he’s beginning to think it’s the lack of lyrium. Everything’sthe lack of lyrium.

It’s a quick matter to deal with his armour and clothes, and almost as soon as he hits the bed, the Fade reaches out to greet him.

* * *

He wakes staring at the sky. He realizes he’s lying on grass, and looking around, that he’s in a forest. Sun shines through trees, throwing dappled shadows onto the ground. Somewhere close by, he hears the sounds of a stream running.

It’s all very beautiful. This is the sort of place he used to dream about when he was on long shifts in the tower, sick of the sight of stone walls.

A twig snaps nearby.

He reaches for his sword, realizing that it isn’t at his hip. He looks down. He has no armour, either. He’s only in simple clothes, the kind he wears when he isn’t working – which, he admits, is rare. What in the Maker’s name - ?

Someone clears their throat nearby. It’s a very feminine throat-clearing.

He turns round, attempting to locate its source, and sees an elf. She’s wearing leathers, making her way unhurriedly towards him, a swing in her step that is close to a saunter. Her eyes are partly hidden by a tumble of dark hair and the dark lines of her vallaslin, but from what he can see, they’re green and bright, expressive. She’s relatively young, perhaps only nineteen or twenty, freckle-faced beneath the ink and grinning at him cheekily. “Afternoon, shem.”

He stares at her, knowing all too well who she is – but not  _the Inquisitor,_ not here. “Ellana?” It falls awkwardly from his lips, as if he rarely says it.

She frowns, cocking her head. “You know my name?”

“I…”

“Does that have to do with why you’re spread-eagled on Dalish ground?”

He struggles to recollect his journey here. “I don’t…” He looks at her, reassessing her armour. “Are you a hunter?”

She shakes her head. “Not as such. So… I think I’m at a disadvantage. You have a name, or should I just keep calling you ‘shem’?”

“Cullen. My, ah, my name is Cullen.”

She sits down next to him, the movement casual and rather graceless. She looks him over. “You look like a Cullen. It’s practical, but a little unusual. It sounds familiar.”

He says before he can help it, the words quiet as if he would like to take them back, “And you… you look like an Ellana.” She tilts her head, looking at him questioningly until he says, “It flows well. It’s graceful, most of the time, and quite Dalish.”

She grins, teeth a sharp white against the tattoos on her face. “Like me.”

He nods, having embarrassed himself into silence. Something about this place is making him strange. Thoughtless, or too relaxed.

Her smile softens, and suddenly she seems serious once again. “ _Ma serannas,_ Cullen. That was a kind answer.”

He looks at her, sitting calmly next to him, and the incongruity of it strikes him. “Shouldn’t you be more cautious? As you said, I’m a human on your lands. You seem overly calm about this.”

That gentle smile remains, a hint of wryness in it. “I know this is my dream. A demon would be more subtle. You might be a spirit, but spirits tend to be kind or disinterested rather than harmful. So you have to be something I’ve dreamt up.” She looks away from him. “Now why would I dream up a shem? And why would he know me?”

It takes him too long to understand. “This is the Fade.”

With that, he knows. He remembers a frightened Ellana in his dream, his younger self… The positions have been reversed. She could wake him from the dream and make him understand, so surely…

“Inquisitor?” he tries. “I’m… We work together. In the Inquisition.”

Something sad settles behind her eyes. In the moment between him blinking and him opening his eyes, she is the Inquisitor again: twenty-seven, with more lines around her eyes than just her vallaslin, her hair tamed.

He almost misses the wild girl of before. Lavellan is quiet, often rather serious. Many of her companions are fond of her, but she speaks little, making herself difficult to get to know. Or at least, he’s found that to be the case. Perhaps he’s doing something wrong.

“Commander.” Her smile is gone now. “I take it I’m not the only one wandering into people’s dreams?”

He looks around him. “It would appear not.” He fixes his eyes on the ground, barely able to look at her when he thinks of their conversation in the war room. “My behaviour before – it was…”

“Cullen.”

“It was unfair.” He presses on, knowing that if he doesn’t say it now he may never do. He’s left so many things unsaid or half-finished in his life, and he won’t do it any longer. Not now. “If this is affecting us both, then there must be some outside force…”

When he returns his gaze to her, she’s shaking her head. “I’ve read up on… this. Fade connections. It can be spirits or demons, but sometimes it just… happens to people. It’s rare, but it’s been known.” She falls silent, and for several moments the only sounds are of the wind in the trees and the stream. She closes her eyes slowly, as if savouring the wind, the taste of this place. The leaf-shadows dance on her face, and he finds himself watching her for longer than may be strictly appropriate. It is, he admits, quite a lovely picture. “I’ve missed it here,” she says eventually.

“Did you grow up here?” he asks.

Her eyes open, and she watches him levelly. “We moved around. Clans have to. This was one of my favourite places we camped, though.” With a soft exhale, she adds, “I’m sorry about… me.”

It’s his turn to shake his head. “It was refreshing, actually,” he admits, unable to help a slight laugh. “The troops rarely call me ‘shem’. And you seemed to smile more.”

She looks at him in surprise. Those thick waves of hair settle over her face again, and he has the feeling that she’s hiding behind them. “Oh. Don’t I smile now?” Her voice is quiet, tentative and without anger.

“Not that I meant - !” He rubs his forehead, wincing at his own ineptitude. “I only meant to say… you seem different, now. In the Inquisition.”

“Sadder?” She’s still watching him carefully. She’s still hiding behind her hair, and those forest-green eyes are watching him carefully.

“Not necessarily. It must be difficult, being who you are.”

“I didn’t ask for the Mark.” She rests her chin on her hand, staring glumly at the ground. “And people keep putting me in charge of things. There’s an army looking at me, and if I falter, if I’m not strong enough…”

He lets out a small, harsh laugh with little humour in it, staring at his knees.

She stares at him, understanding. “Oh.”

He smiles at her. “It does get easier. But I admit, it is a burden at times. I sometimes wonder if I’m made of metal, for the armour’s all they seem to see.” Another laugh, but the weight of the confession is still apparent. He has never said it aloud before, though the fear has always lived in the back of his head, hastily denied.

“There are days when I figure I’ll be the Mark forever.” She sighs. “That’s all I am to them, to you…”

“That isn’t true,” he protests.

A rueful smile. “Thanks for trying.”

“No, I mean that. You’ve never just been the Mark, to any of us. We knew this would be hard on you, but there were reasons we named you Inquisitor. We needed someone who would be a strong leader and who could unite the Inquisition.”

With a small, startled laugh, she asks, “And that was me?”

“ _Yes_.”

He realizes far too late that he’s leaning forward, looking directly into her eyes, trying to emphasize his words. She gazes back at him, those wide eyes on his, but it isn’t fear he sees in them. It is something else entirely, and he can’t quite place what…

* * *

 He wakes to the beginnings of daylight. There is a straw mattress beneath him, not lush forest ground, and Lavellan is still far away, in the Hissing Wastes. He frowns, staring for too long at the tree growing through his roof.

As he trains troops, as he sends reports to Leliana, and as Rylen asks him why he’s so distracted, he is thinking of forests.


	2. Chapter 2

They do not speak of the dream when she returns. Even so, sometimes their eyes meet and a spark of something – shared knowledge or understanding, perhaps – passes between them.

He finds himself wondering about the Fade-connections she spoke of. He scours the library, but finds no book on the subject. He wonders if she asked Solas. He considers asking the mage or Dorian himself, but he’s unsure he’s brave enough to endure either man’s questioning.

Other than this new awareness, little has changed. Or at least, that’s what he chooses to think. He has enough to drive him insane without this as well.

* * *

Three days after she returns to Skyhold, Ellana falls asleep and “wakes up” at the edge of some woods. It’s a beautiful night, clear and blue with a sky full of stars. The twilight is cool and dark, a slight breeze ruffling the grass at her ankles.

She looks around her. No, she still has no idea where she might be. Maybe it’s some new corner of the Fade; it’s so mutable that new places simply seem to grow out of nothing.

“Cullen?”

He looks up, and she’s relieved to see that there’s no shock or anger in his eyes. “Inquisitor.”

“You know me tonight, then?”

He gives her the slightest smile. “Oddly enough, yes.”

She finds herself walking towards him, sitting next to him. She looks out over the lake, thinking that it is indeed quite beautiful. “You seem familiar with this place.”

His smile remains. “Dream or memory, you mean?” At her nod, he says, “Memory, I think. This is a lake outside the village where I grew up. I’d come here to think when my siblings threatened to drive me mad.”

That pulls her up short. He’s always seemed so quiet, awkward and content with his own company, that she figured he must have been an only child. “Siblings?”

“Two sisters and a brother. It’s been too long since I’ve seen them.” He looks at her, and his eyes are soft. They shine in the moonlight. He sits here, very good at making himself small for such a large man, and seems… tentative. There’s vulnerability in the paleness of his skin, his lack of armour, the way he watches her as if he’s uncertain how to approach her. “Do you have any family of your own?”

“I have a brother.” She smiles at the thought of him. “Loren. He’s…” She searches for the right words. “An idiot.”

They both seem surprised at his abrupt laugh. “I see.”                                  

With a grin, she replies, “I doubt it. When he was thirteen he tried to take on a bear by himself, just to prove that he could. Said that he would be a great hunter.”

He looks surprised and more than a little worried. “Did he succeed?”

“He tried sneaking out past sunset. I grabbed the little shit with my magic and trussed him to a tree until he forgot the idea.”

He snorts. “Rosalie used to be like that. She’s my youngest sister,” he adds, evidently for her benefit. “She thought she’d be the next Queen Moira. She must have been about eight when an Orlesian messenger passed through the village, on his way to see the arl, I think. She accused him of trying to  _invade_.” He runs a hand down his face. “I would have been… twelve? I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”

She can’t help but laugh at that. “ _Never again shall we submit,”_  she misquotes.

Surprise crosses his face again. “I’m sure ‘the last of the  _elvhenan’_ wouldn’t be pleased to hear you say that.”

She has to restrain her own surprise at him knowing the phrase. “They’re not pleased by much.”

Silence settles between them. It’s surprisingly comfortable, considering he’s an Inquisition shemlen she doesn’t know that well. She looks to her side and sees him watching the water. Moonlight casts shadows on his cheekbones, softening the other lines of his face. He’s different here – relaxed, happier. She’s known him for months now, but she’s never seen this man before. He’s less brittle, kinder, and it makes him more approachable. Almost…

She tries not to think  _attractive._ The thought is sudden and worrying.She’s bothered her clan enough by joining the Inquisition. Finding a shem desirable? Creators, no. She’s never particularly been into humans, anyway. Unlike a lot of her clan, she has nothing much against them, she just finds them a bit… different. Hairy and inefficient and lumpy in weird ways.

But she looks at him and her heart flips. Or not. It’s probably something she’s eaten.

He frowns at her suddenly, and she tries not to jump, pretending she hasn’t just been… well, ogling him is probably the word someone like Dorian would use. “In the last dream, you said you weren’t a hunter ‘as such’. What did that mean?”

“Oh.” She sighs. “Say I caught a rabbit. Because of my” – she waggles her fingers, and he obviously knows enough to understand that she doesn’t mean the Mark – “I could just touch it and… put it to sleep. It took longer, but it seemed kinder that way.”

When she looks back to him, she’s taken aback by the softness in his eyes. “That’s… admirable. We never really had that option at home.”

“That’s what happens when you lock all your mages in towers.”

She expects him to be angry, but instead he just raises his eyebrows, conceding that.

They look out over the water, and she remembers his earlier activity. Her fingers move before her mind can. She leans over the little jetty, picking up a pebble. It’s smooth in her hands, the weight of it pleasing. Then she tosses it out across the lake. It makes… one and a half skips, maybe, before abruptly sinking.

Damn. She remembered being better at this.

She hears an odd noise next to her, and turns her head to see Cullen looking conspicuously straight-faced. Yet it sounded like she heard him laugh.

She pretends to glare at him. “Do better, then.”

Now he’s definitely laughing, even if it’s quiet, barely more than a breath. He bends to pick up a stone, and then skims it across the lake. It goes most of the way, nearly reaching the other shore.

Shit.

He says nothing, just leans his elbows on his knees and keeps his eyes on the lake, but he’s  _smirking._

She says casually, “My Keeper used to say that if you were killed in the Beyond, your body would still be alive for a while in the real world. I wonder if the Chantry teaches the same thing.” ****

His smirk widens. “Yes, it does.”

She picks up a stone and tries again. Three skips this time before it sinks.

She grunts, picking up another, and in the blink of an eye, he’s reached out. His hand hovers over hers, a few centimetres from touching her – carefully _not_  touching her – and he asks gently, “May I?”

She nods, waiting to see exactly what he’ll do.

His fingers close over hers, firmly yet impossibly carefully. His hands are strong but graceful: Fereldan pale like the rest of him, calloused, broad and scarred but long-fingered. Her breath hitches, much to her embarrassment, but he doesn’t stop, look at her – instead he says, “If you do this, and pull back like this…“

She’s only half-listening, mesmerized by the feel of this, wondering where this gentle man has been in all the war room meetings, during all the awkward, stilted conversations in Haven. Maybe he can only speak to her when he can laugh it off in the morning and say that it wasn’t real. That thought wounds her a little, because suddenly she  _needs_ to see more of this man with the boisterous siblings and the quiet laugh and the careful teaching.

“I – “ She gulps in air, reclaiming her hand and standing. “I need to go. I’m sorry.”

“Ellana…”

Not  _Inquisitor._ She likes the sound of it on his lips far too much. She likes everything about him far, far too much. Her clan would… Her clan will…

She’s heard there are ways of forcing yourself from dreams, when you aren’t trapped by beings or outside forces. She tries now, wondering if there’s a mental equivalent of barreling through a doorway, of taking yourself by the hair and yanking…

“If I’ve done something…” he says from behind her, sounding worried, miserable, and guilt rises in her.

“It’s not - “ She wants to say  _it’s not you,_ but that’s not quite true, so she stays silent, closing her eyes and praying…

* * *

…And wakes up.

This is ridiculous. Running away like some… some blushing girl, or a heroine from one of Cassandra’s books? She’s  _twenty-seven._ She’s stood and torn holes in the Veil. She’s traversed the Fade,  _in person,_ faced down a Nightmare and barely faltered. She’s stood between Cassandra and Varric and survived a very angry Seeker.

He’s just a man like any other. And she barely knows him. He’s reliable and seems kind enough, but why should she trust him? Why should she be… interested? The admission makes her wince, and she tries not to think of what her Keeper would say.

She sighs, figuring sleep is a lost cause at this point, and goes about her day.

She’s forced to summon the war council around midday. She’s dealing with agents’ movements in Crestwood, and she needs Leliana, maybe even Cullen, too.

Speaking of Cullen: he’s professional but cold, barely speaking when it isn’t necessary. He’s terrible at hiding his emotions; his face is an open book, and once again he barely looks at her. She spots Leliana and Josephine casting him concerned glances when they think he can’t see them.

The meeting is over quickly - she’s glad of it - and they file out of the room.

She finds herself looking at Cullen and sees him turn his head, as if he’s been caught watching her.

She can’t help but feel guilty. This isn’t his fault. The dream-bond, her attraction… He’d probably be appalled if he knew. He’s now something like her subordinate, and she has much more pressing matters to worry about. How in the Beyond is she meant to beat Corypheus if she can’t even deal with her own feelings?

She heads to the library and takes a seat, needing the quiet and knowing Dorian is likely to be in the Herald’s Rest, but she’s only been there for a couple of minutes when there’s the slightest creak of a chair next to her. She looks up, knowing already who it will be.

Cole says quietly, “ _A bridge built blindly, stumbling in the darkness. Damning in dreams. Why can’t I help waiting, wanting?”_

That’s it. She jumps to her feet, closing the book on the Tevinter Imperium she was only half-reading. “I’m sorry, Cole. I - I can’t.”

She bolts, and as she leaves she thinks she hears, “Oh. You thought I was talking about you.”

Then it’s gone as quickly and easily as a breath of wind, and she’s heading out somewhere, anywhere. She needs to feel ground, not stone, under her feet. She needs somewhere she won’t have to be  _the Inquisitor,_ just Ellana - and she tries not to think of a tentative Fereldan trying out the syllables, careful with the pronunciation. Strange how he has no time for the court, for etiquette, and yet is so polite when he thinks it’s important. It seems to be a matter of real consideration and of kindness for him, not just well-taught manners.

Damn, she’s doing it again.

She shakes her head at her own foolishness and heads to Josephine’s office, telling her that she’s going into the Hinterlands. She’ll check on the Crossroads refugees. She’s been needing to anyway, and it will get her away from Skyhold and…

It will get her away from Skyhold.

After a long afternoon of fetching supplies, healing and hunting, a sweaty and exhausted Ellana crawls into her tent to sleep, and falls into a memory she wishes she could forget.

* * *

She tries to piece her thoughts together, but all she’s aware of is pain. Such pain.

The trap digs into her leg. She’s covered in blood, and all she can think, as well as  _pain,_ is,  _Stupid. Careless hunting. Fucking shems._ Panic tells her to struggle, to try and free herself as soon as possible, but she tries to wriggle out of the trap and is only greeted by more pain.

They must have been trying to catch bears. They caught her instead. She prays they won’t come back and figure that a “rabbit” is good enough prey after all. She’s grown up hearing tales of human cruelty, and now her mind swims with them, her eyes watering with both pain and fear.

She always understood the tales of the elves losing their immortality as an abstract thing from the Keeper’s stories, but now they come sharply into focus. She’s had eighteen years, and she wants a few more. She doesn’t want Loren or one of the clan to find her like this, trapped like an animal…

Clumsy. Foolish and clumsy. She should have been more aware of her steps, but she’s never been as light on her feet as the true hunters. She - quite literally, she thinks with a broken huff of laughter - walked into this.

She shifts, and regrets it.

 _Painpainpainpain,_ blinding and bright as a fire, red behind her eyelids…

“E – Ellana?” A surprised voice.

She jumps at the sound of it, instantly wishing she hadn’t, and then there’s a shem crouching next to her. Big, blond, pale, with worried brown eyes. Armour like none she’s seen before. Not a Fereldan soldier or a templar, then, and so very, completely out of place here. She manages to croak, “How do you know – “

The shock of before is receding from his face, and a strange sort of calm settles over it instead. “I know you from the Inquisition. Do you remember?” His voice is slow, steady. Careful round the vowels, but not as schooled and sharp as the nobles she’s sometimes heard with their hunting parties.

 _Inquisition?_ The word has the ring of familiarity, but the rest of it… She manages to say, “I don’t… No.”

Still calm, he continues, “This isn’t real.”

She wonders how he manages to stay so solid, to seem so implacable, but he’s probably seen soldiers with worse wounds – wait. Soldiers? How did she know? She stares at him, inhaling sharp breaths, her chest tight. Maybe she’s dying.

He lifts a hand, seeming to hesitate for half a second before he rests it on her shoulder. “Focus on me,” he says. “Focus on my voice.”

She’s still trying to understand his words.  _Not real?_ How can this be… not real? She winces, trying to struggle through the pain, and realises that sometime during all this, she’s grabbed onto his arm and is clutching tightly.

She shouldn’t be. She doesn’t know this man, this shem on Dalish lands. For all she can be sure of, he might have set the trap. But he doesn’t sound like the stories she’s heard, and there is a kindness in him that makes her hold tight and listen. Maybe it’s the steadiness of his gaze, or the fact he knows her name, or his calm, careful voice.

“ _Ellana.”_

It’s the first time he’s raised his voice even slightly - and it  _is_ slight, enough to make her look without startling her.

“Think. You are Ellana of Clan Lavellan, and you are the Inquisitor.”

 _The Inquisitor._  This, she knows. The name, the title… She has been  _the Inquisitor_  for so long she’d almost forgotten  _Ellana_.

She looks at him - stares at him - and knows. “Cullen,” she says after too long.

He shifts to catch her eye, holds her gaze. “Yes.”

She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, the trap is gone. He’s still here, and he hastily takes his hand from her shoulder as if she’s been burned. She remembers the events, the reason they’re both here…

“Oh,” she manages. And then she laughs, sharp and brittle. “I suppose we’re even.”

With a frown, he says, “Even?”

“Seeing horrible memories.” She exhales. Tries her best to breathe. Tears are threatening to slip past her eyelids. Part of her is still in the trap, still caught up in the horror of it. Yet she remembers the sobbing boy in the cage and the stench of blood, and the trap is almost soft in comparison.

He nods. “A memory, then. What happened in reality?”

“A hunter found me,” she sighs. “A human. He was kind. He helped me. Under our laws, I had every right to kill him for where he was, but it seemed… a bad way to repay him. And when we would talk about shems, I couldn’t help but remember that it was a human, not a member of my clan, who helped me escape that day.”

He looks at her, seeming to absorb that, and says, “That explains a lot.” 

He stands and brushes the dirt off his knees. She’s still sprawled on the ground. She tries not to blush, standing as well.

He sighs, looking at the sky, the trees, his back to her. She finds herself noting the polished gleam of his armour, the way his hair is beginning to curl at the ends. He seems so much bigger with the bulk of it all: the armour, the mantle, the rank. More intimidating. Last time, he was in ordinary clothes, seeming looser, tired but more relaxed. Touchable. 

“Thank you,” she manages. “That was an unkind memory to be in.”

A brief, curt nod. He’s always been fumbling, awkward with compliments; she’s seen it before. It’s something familiar in this ever-shifting place.

“Have I…” he begins after far too long, when the silence has long since settled. “Have I done something to offend you?” There’s no anger in his tone; shame, however, is very evident, as is worry. Oh, Cullen. 

He should make an imposing figure, the commander of the Inquisition - broad-shouldered, strong, gloved hands clasped at his back. But this is not the commander of the Inquisition: this is a man whose head is bowed, his shoulders hunched, shifting his weight. He will not, cannot look at her. His fingers clench and unclench, and unless she’s very much mistaken, there’s a tremor in his hands. He is so large and yet so very, very small. 

She needs to see his face, but the guilt is rising in her chest, her throat, and she’s afraid it will choke her if she has to look him in the eye. She wonders if he thinks she is afraid of him or disgusted by him. Neither is true. “It’s not…” She swallows. “It’s not you. This, this bond. It frightens me.” A half-truth that feels like a lie. ”I feel as if I’m intruding.”

He inhales, turning to her slowly, running a hand through his hair. ”I feel much the same. I don’t want to anger you, or impose. But I have had my mind used and toyed with before” - he looks again at the trees, at the brightness of the sky, and the awareness of what exactly he means hangs in the air between them - “and this feels… different. Less cruel. I won’t begrudge you for something that isn’t your fault.”

“Thank you, Cullen.” She moves before she knows what she’s doing, and she’s clasping his hand tight, ignoring the surprise on his face. It’s a handshake more than a caress, firm. The leather of his glove is cold under her fingers but soft, warming quickly, and the gesture changes; she moves to cup his hand in hers, only half-aware of it, her thumb stroking across his knuckles. (She suddenly can’t help but remember old human paintings of knights and ladies. She realizes with surprise and some amusement that he would not be the knight in this painting.)

“Ellana…” Quiet but not a chastisement. He watches her, his eyes wider, his breath uneven, and the space between them suddenly seems…less.

She speaks little, because when she does she prefers to mean her words. Sometimes she just doesn’t have the courage. And this requires far too much courage. But here, in impermanent dreams, she can almost say it. So she blurts in a rush, ”It’s not just the bond…”

* * *

And wakes, cursing.


	3. Chapter 3

She nearly told him. She’s breathless with her own stupidity. Creators, she nearly  _told_ him. What was she thinking?

She’s so preoccupied that it takes her a while to notice birdsong outside, light coming through the canvas of her tent. She’s been away a day, perhaps more. She’s wasted enough time.

She sighs, running her hands through her sleep-tangled hair and trying to make herself  _move._ Skyhold is calling her. Too much might have happened while she’s been away. She’s  _the Inquisitor,_ and she will not hide away from responsibility because of some… some  _shem._ She winces. No, that’s unfair.

She pulls herself from her bedroll, from sleep, and begins packing her things.

She sends a message ahead of her that she’s returning to Skyhold. She watches the crow soar, and yet her heart sinks. They’re both following the same path, but they feel very differently. She wonders what Leliana will think; wonders exactly how obvious it is that she’s running from her responsibilities. They might even be laughing at her, if they know  _why_ she’s doing this. She hopes with all her heart that they don’t. She has one adviser who particularly looks down on negligence, who would be irritated that she’s allowing something so irrelevant to interfere with her work. And yet he’s the reason. Dammit, if his Maker does exist, then He has a sense of irony. A rather cruel one.

She shakes herself from her unpleasant reverie. If she keeps thinking she’ll never start walking, and she can’t delay anymore, even if she’d like to. It will only make things much, much worse.

The walk seems almost infinite. She keeps herself… not entertained, more like sane, thinking of all the things she shouldn’t tell him, such as  _I always seem to be thinking of you,_ or  _I have the feeling I’d be dreaming of you even without this strange situation,_ or  _there are days when I wondered what would happen if I grabbed that ridiculous furry surcoat and pulled you towards me and…_

She coughs, realizing that she’s probably an unflattering shade of pink. This man, she thinks, needs to get out of her head.

There’s a breaking of twigs behind her, a rustling of leaves. She starts to turn, says, “Cole, if that’s you, you’ve done enough damage already…”

Then the Venatori step out from the shadows, and never mind her feelings, she wonders if the rest of her will ever make it back to Skyhold in one piece.

* * *

 _Fenedhis._ She’s healed what she can with magic, but it was a big fight – eight of them, one of her – and there are still a few wounds. Small, not about to kill her, but significant enough to hurt. She crawls into her hastily set up tent, still dressing her arm, a bandage held between her clenched teeth.

She wants to get up. She wants to walks back to Skyhold, to take some sort of giant Fade step and simply appear there. Most of all, she wants Cullen. He’d know what to say; he’d offer reassurances, help treat her wounds. She’s used to simply healing herself; she didn’t see any fights when she was with her clan, and so there was always enough mana, rarely anything so bad that she couldn’t deal with it. All these poultices and potions and bandages… They aren’t foreign to her, but they’re still relatively new.

She muddles through as best she can, but by the time all the bleeding has stopped and she can put her weight on her left leg again, she wants to pass out. She ends up piling her blankets on the floor of the tent. She only means to rest her eyes for a few moments, but by the time her head hits the makeshift pillow, she’s unconscious.

* * *

An office. No, not an office… a library. Books line the wall as far as she can see, fading into the distance and out of view. She looks up and sees the same; there are no ceilings here. A strange place.

She takes a step and it echoes. The floors are marble, but she only knows this after she has heard the echo. She must be in the Beyond indeed.

A soft flutter of paper, as if something has been knocked to the floor. It came from ahead of her, behind a row of shelves.

She can’t help it. Though it feels like… bait, she still walks to see what it is. Her footsteps feel too loud in the silence. She has never been a hunter, she has never been…

She sees Cullen, and with him is a woman. Short, dark-haired. That’s all she sees. And they are kissing desperately, pressed together. The dream-woman turns him, pushes him gently until he’s against a bookshelf, her hands on his hips, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. Ellana catches a glimpse of pointed ears but little else.

Ellana tries in vain not to lick her lips. She shouldn’t be seeing this, and she certainly shouldn’t be jealous of Cullen’s dream, whoever she is.

She hears Cullen gasp for breath quietly, probably unconsciously, and then the couple break apart. Cullen rests his forehead against the woman’s, runs a finger over her collarbone, and then he smiles. The purity of it makes Ellana’s heart ache. “I wasn’t sure, but I hoped…” he says, his voice still rough, breathless. He reaches up to cup her cheek, and she turns away, fond, embarrassed…

_Oh._

Ellana is rarely fond of mirrors, but she recognises herself in profile. The fullness of her lips, the tilt of her chin. The way she ducks her head.

She steps backwards, needing to be gone, to have not seen this, and bumps into a bookshelf. The collision isn’t loud, but it’s loud enough. Both Cullen and the dream-Ellana glance her way.

His eyes widen, pink crawling up his cheeks, and horror crosses his face. “I… Ellana? I didn’t - ” He looks at the dream-Ellana, but she’s gone, as if she’d never been. He’s left instead with… her, the real her, and what seem like miles between them.  He takes a hesitant step forwards. “Maker, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

She wants to pardon him, or to pretend she hasn’t seen. Anything to make this better. Instead something makes her ask, “You dream of me?”

He opens his mouth as if to say something. Closes it again. He looks at the floor as he says, “Only recently.”

“Was that…” She tries to find the words, her chest tight, the shock of all this still in her blood. “Was that what you wanted? To be with” – she’s not sure she can say it, because saying it means she’ll have to believe it – “me?”

The silence stretches, and after too long, he nods.

“How long?” she asks.

“Since…” He rubs at the back of his neck, and he looks up but now he’s addressing the bookshelves, not her,  _why can’t he look at her?_ “Possibly since the lake. Perhaps before. I didn’t know what it was at first, and I didn’t want to believe – You’re the  _Inquisitor._ I had no right to ask – “

“But if you did?”

Now he looks at her, frowning. “I don’t follow.”

“If you had the right to ask…” And now she’s taking steps forward, closing the gap between them until she’s standing in front of him. “What would you say?”

He stares at her, blinks a couple of times. Then he says, “I would say…” He inhales sharply. “Could you ever… Is there a world in which – I think of you so much, too much, and… would you ever want to be with me?” He’s looking at the floor again, still flushed with embarrassment.

“I would say yes.”

He raises his head, startled. “You would?”

She rises on her toes, a hand under his chin, and kisses him. Chaste, barely more than a peck. He makes a quiet noise that sounds like  _Oh,_ and then he’s responding, his hands rising to hold the small of her back, his mouth seeking hers. She hadn’t thought that… What with him being a templar, and his awkward bluntness, she hadn’t imagined he’d be able to kiss like this. Maybe it’s because this is a dream, but it feels… She doesn’t remember feeling like this before, with the others. This sends sparks down her spine, has her curling round him and running her hands over his shoulders, his arms, needing to touch him everywhere, her mouth opening for him.

It feels like it must have been several minutes when they part, and yet it was still too short. He inhales in the silence, taking a moment to open his eyes, and then just  _looks_  at her. She wants to shrink under the weight of it, the focus in his gaze.

She smiles at him. “Was that alright?”

His eyebrows raise in surprise, and he manages, “That was… Yes. More than that.” He leans down, and she wonders if he’s going to kiss her again –

* * *

And then she’s awake, her toes curling and her cheeks pink. She curses once, viciously, at the walls of her tent. She wonders how long she’s been asleep, and then she sees daylight and knows. Oh. Oh no. She’ll be far too late. She said she’d arrive this afternoon.

* * *

“Ellana!”

She turns and sees Josephine hurrying towards her, ruffles bouncing slightly as she runs, worry on her face. The woman finally catches up with her, and clears her throat. “I… Inquisitor.” She seems to have recovered her professionalism. She raises a hand to her carefully braided bun; only a few hairs have come loose, but she still grimaces. “What has happened to you? You seem…” She looks Ellana up and down.

Ellana belatedly realizes how she must look. Still bloodstained and exhausted, even with a night’s sleep. “There was some Venatori interference.”

Josephine nods. “I see.” She touches Ellana’s arm, looking her over once more. “I see you have done some healing yourself, but have you been to the infirmary? You should…”

“I don’t need – “

“You do,” someone says behind her, and then Cullen is entering the room, walking to stand in front of her. “You’re a proficient healer, but there’s only so much you can do. Why didn’t you take a team? They might have prevented this.”

She looks at her feet. She can’t exactly tell him the real reason, and so she manages, “You’re right.”

“I…” When she looks up, his jaw is clenched, but in discomfort rather than anger. He can’t quite meet her eye. “I’m sorry,” he says at last. “I was told that the Inquisitor had arrived covered on blood and visibly injured. I was concerned.”

At some point while he was saying this, he’s placed his hand on her arm. The touch is gentle, barely there, easy enough to shake off. She looks down at it, then back to his face, and he hastily steps away from her. He finally looks at her, and while he still seems uneasy, there is something softer in his eyes. He looks as though he wants to say something else, and she can’t help but remember the events of the previous night, the feeling of his mouth on hers, how gentle he was. She wondered whether that was a genuine dream rather than the bond, whether an image of him simply happened to be in one of her unconscious adventures, but she sees his face – the way he barely looks at her, the slight hint of pinkness in his cheeks, not obvious unless you’re looking closely – and knows. It happened. It may have only been a dream, but it was real.

Creators, it was  _real._

Now it’s her turn to squirm and look away. She wonders if it’s obvious to Josephine. It must be; anyone with eyes must be able to tell that something’s happened between them. An observer might not know the exact nature of it, but it’s definitely  _something._

Sure enough, when she looks over her shoulder Josephine is watching them, a hint of curiosity in her expression. It’s quickly wiped away when she sees Ellana looking, and she gives them a placid smile, nodding in acknowledgement and rushing away to do something else.

That leaves the two of them. “Cullen,” she tries. It’s strange, saying it like this. In reality. She takes a few steps closer to him. The solidity of him is more apparent when they aren’t in the Beyond, and Creators, has he always been this  _tall_? “We need to – we need to talk.”

He nods curtly, opens his mouth as if to say something, and seems to decide against it. “I – You need to go to the infirmary. We can talk afterwards.” He runs a nervous hand across his jaw, through his hair, then he’s striding out of the door without another word, and she can’t help but wonder if she’s made a mistake. Maybe he’s thought better of what happened between them. Maybe he’s remembered that she’s the Inquisitor, that he’s…

_I think of you so much, too much…_

She tries not to blush, and she thinks that maybe she’s wrong. Part of her wants to give up, to hide and wait for this awkwardness to fade, but she remembers his worry, his words in the Fade, the fact that with him she can be  _Ellana_ …

She goes to the infirmary, and while she’s having her wounds seen to, she decides what she will say to him.

A meeting is called in the war room after she returns. She’s heading through the doorway when she sees that he and Josephine have already arrived. He looks up, his mouth once again opening briefly, as if he wants to say something, but he closes it and nods in greeting instead. His eyes meet hers and there is… something. A slowing of time, a new awareness, a pull. She, too, wants to say something, to comment on this and try to understand it, but they aren’t alone.

She looks to Josephine, who offers her a smile and a similar nod.

Leliana arrives soon afterwards, looking – in an understated, Leliana kind of way – harried and anxious. Apologizing for her lateness, she says that the letter she had expected from a scout hasn’t arrived. She hopes it’s due to ordinary impunctuality and delays rather than, say, a troop of Venatori.

Things continue as usual, except for the new spark, the way Ellana can’t quite look at him. The way she is constantly, unavoidably thinking of his hands, and his mouth, and the Fade.

And then the meeting’s over, or close to it. All that’s left is the leaving.

She’s heading through the corridor when Cullen clears his throat behind her. “Inquisitor – “ He hesitates, corrects himself. “Ellana.”

She turns. There’s really little else she can do. He’s watching her, and looking into his eyes it hits her again. The feeling of his mouth on hers. How much she’d needed it. The knowledge that he’d dreamed of her, wanted her. It leaves her breathless and a little flushed.

She manages, “I’ve found out about the dream-bond.”

“Cole,” he says, and when she stares at him, he continues, “He explained. Apparently he’d already spoken to you. It” – he looks away, swallows – “It still bothers me that he would do such a thing, that he took my thoughts and my _dreams_ and…” He clears his throat. “But that’s not what I… What happened in the Fade – did you mean what you said? What you” – he clears his throat – “what you did?”

It’s heavier here, the weight of such a confession. It won’t simply be washed away when she wakes. But she looks at him, this strange human who has found his way into her dreams, who has shown her how to skim stones, who has such gentle hands and has shown such unexpected kindness, and she says: “Yes.” It’s louder than she expected, and she flushes.

Surprise crosses his face, and then he’s frowning at her. “That night, after the lake – you said, ‘It’s not just the dream-bond.’ You were going to tell me, weren’t you?”

She ducks her head. “Yes.”

She stares at the floor, but she hears slow footsteps approach her, and then there’s a hand under her chin, nudging her to look up, to look at him. He’s so close to her that she can feel the heat from his skin. He says, “You’ve seen the worst of me… You’ve seen Kinloch, and you still want this? Maker.”

She nods, just in case he’ll step back, think that there’s been some sort of mistake.

And then he’s pressing his mouth to hers, and it’s firmer than the kiss in the Beyond, stronger. She recovers from her surprise almost immediately, rising to meet him, and he’s walking her backwards, gentle but with that same firmness, that certainty. She goes with it, leaning on the wall behind her, glad of it as her knees threaten to buckle. He takes her face in both his hands, angles her head, deepening it until they’re pressed together, sharing breath. The hesitance he showed in dreams is gone – he kisses like a man in the desert who’s finally found water, or a charlatan who’s found religion. As if he’s been waiting his entire life for this, and only this. She realizes that dreams didn’t compare.

They’re silent for a few seconds afterwards, both of them recovering their composure, still watching each other’s reaction.

There is the smallest shuffle, probably the sound of a delicate slipper on stone, and they turn as one to see Josephine hovering awkwardly in the doorway. There is a distinctly pink tinge underneath the brownness of her skin, and she gives them a distinctly nervous smile. “I hadn’t realized… Well, I had suspected… Ahem. I’m happy for you both.”

Cullen does his best not to look horrified. “Was there something you – “

“It can wait,” she replies, and then she’s walking away, leaving them both looking at the walls, the floor, anywhere but each other, trying desperately to take back their dignity.

“I… um…” he starts, then seems to lose his courage.

Ellana remembers her decision in the infirmary, and she says, “Would you like to have dinner? Real dinner, in the… Not in a dream?”

That gives him back his cheer. He smiles at her, that odd, rarely-seen shyness returning once again, and he says, “I’d like that.”

She can’t help but reflect his happiness, beaming at him. “Good.” Once more, she takes his hand, and for a little while,  _the Inquisitor_ is  _Ellana_ again.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [my Tumblr](http://trulycertain.tumblr.com). Feel free to come and have a chat, or lurk at will.


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